"With language that's as simple as it is musical, Di Piero sets dazzling moments amid plainsong."--New York Times Book Review For more than three decades, W. S. Di Piero's poems have reveled in the gritty realism of cities, often drawing from his childhood in South Philadelphia. The award-winning poet, writer, and art critic returns with his twelfth volume of poetry. The Complaints is a book of fortunes, laments, and celebrations--and about pulling the extraordinary ordinary. These sensuous poems speak of the ways we're hostages to chance and circumstance. Whether Di Piero writes about cranes migrating, city scavengers, diners, bars, bad weather, or movies and the memories they make, he reminds us how "We bone and tissue creatures stir up embers / of fiery wish."
"Immortal Village is a poetry collection about wildness versus domesticity, about desire set against the civilizing structures of myth, marriage, school, and village."--
Brave, honest writing about race and difference by young people trying to make sense of a world in which they encounter discrimination
In his third collection of poetry, John Hoppenthaler surveils the remnants of an American Dream. What devotion might mean and look like in our time is at the book's heart. The poems, written in a variety of styles, offer testimony and uncover, row by row, what remains viable in a garden they hope to resurrect.
One of the main themes is the essential presence of music and music-making in the world; "I would never go into the dark without the voices," as the title poem says. The book also includes a number of elegies for departed family members and friends in balance with poems that celebrate existence--"love your life," as the final (wedding) poem insists. The epigraph at the beginning of the book suggests the way we all must live in contradiction.
Highly intelligent and a master of camouflage, the octopus is a creature destined to thrive in the poetic ecosystem. In The Octopus Game, the figure of the octopus shape-shifts and reinvents itself throughout ocean depths, tide pools, aquariums, gardens, movies, pulp novels, fine art, and nightmares. Nicky Beer acts as the strange documentarian recording the bizarre, beautiful, and disturbing habits of creatures for whom subterfuge and mimicry are a means of survival.
Man is premised on the fact that most individuals in our culture have, over the last two generations especially, drifted beyond rebellion or rejection of spiritual matters into a purely worldly menu of causes to explain what occurs to them. Nonetheless, the spiritual--in a universal sense although here it is referenced by the Judeo-Christian tradition--retains, strangely, its capacity to condition and inform our sense of the man-character's life.
Here is poetry of subtlety and scale: it's a record in equal measure of the sweeping and of the small. We are given a view of the world through a time-lapse camera, a pair of binoculars, a glass-bottomed boat, and we are made to see the movement in what we thought was stillness.
Like Conrad's Marlow, Joseph Millar speaks with fierce compassion and the authority of hard-won experience. In his remarkable third collection, Blue Rust, he lays down "the shield of irony" without taking up the consolations of easy sentiment or detached despair. The result is an unstrained originality: lyrics that avoid the metronome, leaps of imagination in which the associative logic never trails off into self-indulgent incoherence. Millar looks hard at a world that is doomed and beautiful. What sets Blue Rust apart is its ability to honor both sides.
For over three decades, Michael McFee has been, in the words of one critic, putting together a body of work that few poets anywhere, of any age, can match for its poise, its wit and metaphorical power, its accessibility and depth of feeling. That Was Oasis, McFee's eighth full-length book of poetry, is a collection of spirited and diverse elegies. Its poems pay inventive attention to the overlooked or underappreciated, to such subjects as saltines, holding hands, killing a copperhead with a hoe, the word bunk, bald spots, the young Thelonious Monk, and a minor-league baseball park in Asheville, North Carolina--all of which, seen in the right light, can become unexpected oases in the quotidian.
Cummins's quiet, lunatic meditations--wait, that should be luminous meditations--are great fun. From father-son stuff, and women grousing about that sentimentality, to killing someone in your basement, or turning into a locust, or imagining his wife's violent death, Cummins hasn't lost his touch. Though he does lose his hand in one of these. Maybe it should be numinous meditations? In various emergencies?
A Classic Contemporary reissuing of Falling Deeply Into America, poems by Gregory Djanikian.
Prenumerera på vårt nyhetsbrev för att få fantastiska erbjudanden och inspiration för din nästa läsning.
Genom att registrera dig accepterar du vår personuppgiftspolicy.
